I'm lacking inspiration,a reason to convey an emotionon this screen for others to read.It is times like this that I wonder:Why do I write?Why do I fuel the bending of wordsto fit into straight linesthat confiscate an imitation,a mere shadow of my identity,into meaningless phrases?But it is for this exact point to whichI turn away and just write.It's a momentary process to whichmy writing is born and comes to life.I morph it with a clean idea,with fluidity and occasional rhyme,with all the characters and spaces,each word in conjunctionwith the placement and styleof every stanza.This is how I creatively express myself,my thoughts and feelings,to those who think they know meand to those who do not even knowI exist.Like a random particle that springs to lifewhen the wind blows in a new direction,this page can only come so close to me,travel so far to youand explode as radical concepts and ideasto people in foreign lands.I sit and write,you sit and read,but to what extent is this interaction?It can manifest itself as a simple hello,or translate bits and pieces of my existence and purposeto a different language.I can't locate the reason I type,the reason I breathe,the purpose I serve to live,but I hope that a page,any page,of what I have written survives,and is dissected in the futureto find and discover my passionthat infuses myself in these black keys.Who cares about what is on the pagebut rather the personin which is reflected and refracted in their work.What's more important is that connection,that interaction which leavessuch a longing in our lives and intrigues us.It is these human interactions,which seem ultimately minuscule and invaluable,that creates our desires.And it all starts with the black keys,represented as black characters,on this page,expressing me.

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